Even today I taste the sour aftertaste of the peach,
Which I bit into so young and naive, out of reach,
Unaware it marked the start of my remaining days,
Each bittersweet moment savored in so many ways,
As if life were that simple, cheap fruit in my hand,
Until it slipped away in a long, gray winter's stand.
Though many memories now are lost in the mist,
And there are those I'd prefer not to exist,
Still, I recall its troubling name with grateful peace,
And if seen again, I'd greet it with old times' respect, a release.
Just like the tomato I tried shortly after, in my grief,
Its cheerful color brought my sad hours brief relief.
Its strange, peculiar taste, still a mystery to me,
From the start, I feared it wasn't meant to be,
That I wasn't the one it needed or sought,
Just one who enjoyed the fruit it brought.
I just wanted to wash away the unpleasant feel,
Which its refreshing flesh seemed to heal.
Maybe we both changed as time moved on,
Helping less, hurting more, the bond gone.
I don't know if what I felt was true,
But I hope it smiles back on our view,
And that I left no incurable scar,
And someday, together, we laugh from afar.
And now I stand after two lifelong quests,
Gazing at a bowl of sloes, my past's tests.
But whenever I reached for this noble fruit's yield,
My past held my hand, my fate sealed.
I recalled every first and last bite taken,
And the frost-painted sloes remain forsaken.
